The Rosecross, page 12
“Can you hear me, Francesco?” he asked softly.
I looked through the small, square screened opening in the dark confessional and saw Nino’s silhouette.
“Yeah, I can hear you well. Why are you here?” I inquired, baffled by his presence at the service.
“Because your father gave me an envelope and asked that I deliver it to you if there was ever a memorial service for Claudio Armondi at St Stephen’s.”
“Who made you aware of the service?”
“I received an invitation by courier yesterday.”
“Who sent it?”
“Don’t know. It was unsigned.”
The venue of our meeting was rather odd, I thought; perhaps it was a subtle message from my father—the penitent son’s sins forgiven, his penance about to be doled out.
“Why the confessional?” I asked.
“Because your father thought it best that we not be seen together.”
“Why St. Stephen’s?”
“He said that after you read the message, you should look closely at the stained-glass window above the crucifix.”
As he spoke, Nino slid a white envelope through a narrow opening under the screen separating priest and penitent.
“Here it is.”
I slipped it into my pants pocket.
“You may want to meet me after you read the message,” he said anxiously. “Give me a little time after I leave the church. My apartment is not far from here. The address is on the envelope.”
I knelt in the confessional a short while, giving Nino time to leave St. Stephen’s. Except for a priest kneeling in the sanctuary, rosary in hand, the church was empty. I genuflected, sat in the last row of pews, broke the seal of the white envelope, removed the note, and read the message:
Francesco:
I am genuinely sorry that I must now involve you in the conspiracy that’s gripped me since I began searching for Rosalina’s killer. If you are reading this note, it means that Claudio Armondi has died. Because of his passing, I need your help. The option to assist me, however, will rest with you. Either discard this note and return to your family or ask Nino to give you a sealed brown envelope I have placed in his possession. I have instructed him to keep the envelope for three days following Claudio’s memorial service. If he does not hear from you, he’ll destroy the envelope. Remember, the decision rests with you.
CHAPTER 38
ANOTHER CASUALTY
It was a short cab ride to Nino’s apartment. He stayed in a brownstone on M Street in Georgetown, not too far from St. Stephen’s. When I arrived, I paid the cab fare, punched in the code Nino had given me, and walked into the three-story apartment building. Nino’s walk-up was on the third floor. I climbed the stairs, reached the top, took a moment to catch my breath, and then knocked on his door. There was no response. I knocked louder. Again, no answer. I reached for the knob and turned it slowly. The door was unlocked. I entered the apartment. Nino won’t mind, I thought.
“Hey, Nino, are you here?” I shouted.
He didn’t answer. Perhaps Nino ran an errand after Uncle Claudio’s memorial service. Or maybe he was just enjoying a leisurely walk home on a beautiful, late winter day. Looking for the most inviting seat, I chose a cushioned chair and placed my feet on an ottoman. Before I settled in for a short nap, a groan from another room startled me. Moving cautiously and quietly, I removed my feet from the ottoman, slid out of the chair, and made my way into a bedroom. There, beside the bed, I found Nino lying on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness with blood trickling down the side of his head. I placed my finger on his carotid artery and searched for a pulse. Thankfully, it was strong and steady.
His bedroom had been ransacked. Dresser drawers hung open. Clothes—underwear, socks, shirts, ties—were strewn on the floor along with pillowcases and sheets stripped from the mattress. The walk-in closet was in disarray. Nino’s suits and shoes were scattered in piles on the floor. An open phone book laid on the bed. The room was a mess. I ran into the kitchen, wrapped ice cubes in a dish towel, tied a knot, and applied the cold compress to Nino’s wound before dialing for an ambulance. Within a few minutes, and before the paramedics arrived, Nino’s eyes opened. Through dazed eyes he stared up at me, groggy but conscious.
“Nino, what happened?” I asked excitedly.
“After I left you at St. Stephen’s, Francesco, I hurried back to my apartment. I thought that you would be coming here,” he said as I tucked a pillow under his head. “I came into the bedroom, and that’s all I remember.”
“Where did you keep the envelope my father gave you?” I asked quickly, suspecting that it had been stolen.
“I hid it in the phone book,” he drawled, still muddled but coherent.
I stared at the open directory lying on Nino’s bed. His assailant had stolen the envelope my father entrusted to him—rousing my curiosity because the circle of confidants who knew about the message was small.
“Besides my father and you, did anyone else know about the envelope?” I asked suspiciously.
“I assume Mr. Borgese?” he mumbled.
“Why?”
“He called me early this morning.”
“What did he want?”
“He asked if I planned to attend the memorial service.”
With its siren bellowing, the ambulance rushed Nino to Georgetown University Hospital. I rode with him. After we completed the paperwork, Nino was placed on a gurney and wheeled into a treatment room. I explained to the doctor that I was Nino’s friend and had found him lying on the floor in his apartment’s bedroom, probably the victim of a burglary attempt. Although I was stretching the truth, that was all the information that needed to find its way into Nino’s hospital records. After a detailed examination and a series of tests, the emergency room physician informed Nino that he had a slight concussion. Before hurrying to his next patient, the doctor scribbled a prescription, tore it off the pad, gave it to Nino, and told him to return home and rest for a day or two. I was reluctant to accept his suggestion. Nino’s assailants probably followed us to the hospital, and, like bloodhounds, eagerly awaited our departure. A hospital aide transported Nino in a wheelchair to the ER exit.
“Hospital policy,” she explained.
I hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Union Station,” I responded.
Nino, stunned, looked at me, puzzled.
“Why Union Station, Francesco?”
Although I accepted my role in the Judge’s twisted plan, the resentment I had harbored against my father surfaced again. I was the lone survivor in the epilogue of his life, but I was disturbed by the Judge’s decision to give Nino a part in his unfinished story.
“Allow me to say this, Nino,” I said frankly. “My father has placed us both in a dangerous situation. I’ve been hospitalized, you’ve been assaulted, and I’m being led blindly through a maze by messages such as the ones my father left with you.”
Nino’s eyes met mine.
“I understand, Francesco, but where do we go from here?” he answered innocently, not knowing the details of his commitment.
“I’m caught up in this, Nino,” I warned. “And I must see it through to the end, wherever that might take me.”
“And I’ll take the ride with you,” he offered blindly.
I gave him an option.
“Perhaps you should return home and open a law practice,” a hallow suggestion.
“Save your breath, Francesco,” he said adamantly. “I’m staying with you.”
I knew that full disclosure was a requirement in a relationship that had unforeseen consequences. But, in making his offer, Nino had failed to perform his due diligence. With detailed precision, I related each circumstance that led to our rendezvous at St. Stephen’s Church, including Grazia’s kidnapping—her whereabouts, her safety, her survival, thoughts that haunted me every moment of every day.
“All the more reason for me to help you, my friend,” Nino answered, shrugging, his words nothing more than blind trust.
CHAPTER 39
THE FOUR SEASONS
Because Washington was the setting of the Judge’s unfinished novel, we needed a place to stay. Nino’s apartment was too insecure. Unfortunately, my cash was low, and I had maxed out my credit cards. Only one option remained. I decided to call Elisha after we reached Union Station.
“I think your assailant is following us, Nino,” I cautioned as the cab headed down Massachusetts Avenue toward Union Station. “Once we get there, I’ll make a telephone call. We’ll meet at a designated place. You go one way, and I’ll go another—weave in and out of the crowd. Do anything you must to shake his tail. I’ll do the same.”
Crowds of people—shoppers, travelers, tourists—were patronizing the boutique stores and restaurants at Union Station. Some browsed in the food court while others paraded up and down the mezzanine level. Nino ordered a sandwich at Au Bon Pain while I slipped into a Starbucks and ordered a cappuccino before calling Elisha. Apologetically, I told her very little, just that I needed some cash and a place to stay for a couple of days. She promised to deposit five hundred dollars into my checking account—her money. Elisha also told me that Mendici Melrose maintained a suite at the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue.
“No one is using it. Francesco,” she said after a brief pause, confirming its availability with her secretary. “I’ll call and reserve the suite in your name.”
She didn’t want to pry, but I’m sure my strange request aroused Elisha’s curiosity. Just as our call ended, Nino met me at Starbucks. As he ate his sandwich, I revealed our meeting place to him. After finishing his sandwich, Nino crumbled the wrapping paper, placed it into a bag, and shoved his chair back. He then deposited the bag into a trash container and hurriedly merged into the crowd. I waited a few minutes and then raced off in another direction, weaving in and out of traffic, blending into the shoppers and travelers as the public address announcer bellowed the arrival and departure of trains to and from Union Station.
About an hour later, Nino and I met at the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue in Georgetown. The lobby was elegant. Authentic Persian area rugs were spread over black Italian marble floors and cherry-stained paneled walls extended from baseboard to ceiling. A bronze medallion surrounded the canopy of a crystal chandelier; the sculptural ceilings were painted in earth tones. Black leather sofas decorated with bronze nail heads furnished the seating area. A beveled mirror hanging on the far wall expanded the spacious lobby. Surprisingly, the concierge approached me and asked if I was Francesco Micco.
“Yes,” I responded.
Softly ringing a bell, he summoned a porter.
“Take Mr. Micco directly to the Mendici Melrose suite in the west wing,” he ordered quietly.
The suite was elegant. A mauve floral couch with two purple pillows was placed beneath a Will Moses lithograph print in the sitting room. Twin occasional chairs complimented the sofa; a coffee table separated the two chairs. A twenty-seven-inch plasma television hung on the far wall. I opened the twin paneled doors leading into the bedroom and found more opulence: two queen-sized beds, two purple chairs that matched the patterned mauve rug, and a large pedestal desk. Fancy digs for the high rollers who patronized Mendici Melrose. God save the billable hour. After the porter left, I collapsed onto the bed, but my attempt to find rest was interrupted by Nino.
“Francesco, I have something to tell you,” he said contritely.
I hunched my back against a pillow and leaned against the bed’s headboard. Nino sat on the edge of his bed. He hung his head and clasped his hands. His eyes rose to meet mine.
“When the Judge gave me the envelopes, he left specific directions,” he began, the plotting lawyer orderly arranging his thoughts. “First, your father instructed me never to open them. Second, he told me to deliver the first envelope to you whenever I received word that there would be a memorial service for Claudio Armondi at St. Stephen’s.”
Sensing Nino’s discomfort, I lifted my head off the pillow and sat on the edge of the bed, folded my arms, and faced him. He had my full attention.
“The Judge also told me to give you the second envelope,” he continued sheepishly, his eyes drilled on mine, “but only if you contacted me within three days after Claudio Armondi’s memorial service. Otherwise, he instructed me to destroy the second envelope.”
“You attempted to carry out the Judge’s instructions,” I remarked, shrugging. “But, unfortunately, someone stole the second envelope. Not your fault.”
“Francesco…”
Nino’s voice trailed off, his expression the somber look of a penitent about to confess an egregious sin.
“…I opened the second envelope and read the message.”
CHAPTER 40
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Nino’s confession was good news—mostly because he was an Oxford Scholar with the uncanny knack of recalling whatever he had read. Fortunately, Nino Viola was blessed with a photographic memory. My father often relied on his gift, especially during oral arguments whenever the lawyers spewed legal principles that put a strange twist to cases they were citing. A quick correction scribbled by Nino on a yellow legal pad and placed on the bench signaled that Judge Micco would soon ask a pointed question—the lawyer’s forlorn stare that of a schoolboy watching as his father read the message sent home by his teacher.
“You haven’t betrayed the Judge, Nino,” I remarked, reassuring him. “Things happen. Just tell me what you remember about the message?”
“Essentially, it was a cryptic code—a series of generic questions only you could answer.”
“Did he give you any instructions for me?” I asked hopefully.
“Just one,” he responded guilefully as a smile crossed his face. “The Judge said you should ‘answer the questions and pay a visit.’”
“Nothing more?”
“That’s it. We were both tired. It was well past midnight when your father gave me the envelopes.”
“Why so late?”
“We were working on the Rosen opinion.”
“Rosen—as in Saul Rosen?” I asked anxiously. “The guy murdered a short time after my mother was killed?”
“That’s the man, Francesco. As you probably know, the Judge was adamant about resolving cases expediently. Rosen was on a fast track.”
“What charges were pending against Rosen at the time he was murdered?” I inquired.
“He was indicted on two espionage counts,” Nino answered. “The Justice Department charged that he had obtained classified information from the United States government and disclosed it to think-tank personnel and the Israeli government.”
“What was the issue before the court?”
“It was an epic battle over the disclosure of information. The trial judge ruled in favor of the defense and ordered the Justice Department to disclose a boatload of information.”
“The government appealed to the circuit court?” I asked.
“Yes. The case was assigned to your father.”
“Who did Rosen work for?”
“The American Israel Public Affairs Committee.”
“AIPAC?”
“That’s the acronym.”
“He was a lobbyist?”
“Yes.”
“By chance, Nino, did one of the issues before the court involve a disc?” I asked suspiciously.
“Yes,” he answered, after pausing. “The Rosen case did involve a disc.” His squinted eyes told me we both held the same thought—it was the same disc demanded as Grazia’s ransom.
“I was in court during the oral argument,” he said slowly while giving me a pensive stare. “The lawyers quibbled incessantly about the transcript of a private conversation between three Pentagon officials that was stored on a computer disc.”
“The defense team wanted access to the disc?” I asked rhetorically.
“Of course. But the government argued that the three officials were discussing highly classified information that related to the Administration’s Middle East policy.”
“Executive privilege?”
“That was the government’s argument.”
“So, my father had to decide whether the prejudice to the government outweighed defense council’s right to listen to the information stored on the disc?”
“Exactly.”
Giovanni Micco was not an impetuous man, calculating to a fault, and the message given to Nino—the one his law clerk read—was perhaps related to the Rosen case and the disc Grazia’s kidnappers demanded as her ransom.
“Did you memorize the questions?” I asked.
“Didn’t have to.”
The fruits of a photographic memory, I thought.
“The first question?”
“He asked you to identify his favorite card game.”
“That’s an easy one,” I responded. “My father loved playing blackjack.”
“Isn’t there another name for the game?” Nino asked.
“Yes. Some players refer to it as 21.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said, nodding.
We rolled on, a game that frankly amused me.
“What was the second question?”
“He asked you to name your mother’s favorite artist and painting.”
“Leonardo da Vinci. His painting of ‘The Last Supper’ was one of her passions,” I recalled warmly. “At least three times we visited the Piazza Delle Grazie in Milan to see it.”
We were now chugging along on all cylinders.
“The number of people at the Last Supper?” he asked.
I stared curiously at Nino. He knew the answer.
“The twelve apostles and Christ,” I responded. “A total of thirteen.”
“And the next question?” I inquired hurriedly.
“He asks you to identify his favorite actress.”
The question caused me to pause, a momentary lapse while I mused retrospectively. Perhaps I had judged my father too harshly. The simple questions, so easy to answer, opened my eyes to a gentler, caring, more loving Giovanni Micco. The card games, our trips to Milano, the movies we enjoyed at the Cinema Theater Olimpia while in Taormina, the question and answer games we often played together—such as I’m doing now with Nino.
